Parking with Easter.

Easter.

No. I'm not talking about the holiday. He's a person, Easter. He runs the parking lot on Hollywood blvd. and Cahuenga. (Those are two streets right in the middle of Hollywood-- you probably guessed that.)

He and two other men, huddle in their shack, that is slightly reminiscent in size and design to what you might imagine on a frozen lake in Wisconsin. I'm surprised men can handle being huddled together in such a fashion. My mind immediately goes to a sexual place, but it seems to be doing that lately. Actually, it does that all the time. I'm human. Anyway, the shack is lined with headshots of what I would assume to be movie stars. Maybe movie stars who've parked there over the years?

Easter is the only memorable man out of the three. I can't even remember what the other two men look like, and I see them just as often.

Why is it that one person sticks out above all the rest? Is it because his soul is more similar to mine? Do I know him from a past life? Or is it just that he is friendlier and louder than the rest?

Easter wants to be famous. He's about 70 and all the colorful suits and outfits he puts together complete with changing glasses and hats and jewelry and boots glow against his beautiful dark, black, ageless skin. His voice is deep and he calls me princess and sometimes suga. We are both Libras. He says it doesn't bother him that I compliment him every day because he's 'a Libra too,' and he 'gets where it comes from.' That doesn't mean I get to avoid parking in between his yellow lines though. "Stay between my yellow lines, suga!" He always yells that into my window after I hand him my five dollars and pull away.

He claims he wrote the movie 'Cars.' He's serious too. And he's not crazy. In fact sometimes I wonder if he's enlightened.

When it's sunny, he pulls out his folding beach chair and basks in the sun with his legs crossed and his silver cowboy boots (those are his favorite) peaking out from underneath his purple velvet pant leg. He sits there all day and watches. Someone who watches, understands. Someone who patiently and presently watches, that is.

I think about all that he sees. Prostitutes. Drug Deals. Rich, wannabe Hollywood types valet parking their leased luxury cars. Homeless actors gone mad. Tourists. Families. Servers. Bartenders. Musicians. Athletes. Tattoo artists. Drunken brawls. Crying girls. Angry men. Laughing couples. Confused parents. Foreigners. The sky. The road. And his own, aging hands.

He's waiting for his big break. But somehow, it's not tragic. It's beautiful, because just as much as he waits for his dream, he waits every day for his friend who carries the brown box full of treasures. A tall bearded man who sort of resembles Santa Claus. He sells used clothes, like overalls. And baseball cards. And posters. And hats. They sit there, usually in the sun, away from the shack, and discuss the merchandise, like two mathematicians deriving equations. Not just anyone is aloud into their world...

He intrigues me, Easter. Most people would wince at a career in parking. But, I can't help but wonder if he has discovered a special secret... Waiting. Responding. Watching. Reigning. He wields a power. You may not believe me, but just try parking there, and you'll see. All he does is wait, literally, and the world comes and parks themselves in his lot.